Atlantis: Nosy Mother of the Year
by Era Telris
Summary: RodneyJohnCarson. Hint of mpreg. Rodney hallucinates, John and Carson end up having a permanent menage a trois of minds with him. Hint of Mpreg.


Caffeine made the pain better. The high of stimulants dissipated leaving a bone-aching sense of relief. Caffeine made the aftermath bearable.

Or that was what Rodney preferred to delude himself into thinking. Sleep wasn't possible with the impending apocalyptic Hive ships. Rodney looked over to see Radek unconscious on the next infirmary bed, he wondered if he would ever be able to sleep again.

_Why do you not rest?_ He knew the hallucinations would come, Carson had warned them repeatedly of the side effects. Side effects that had to be ignored if not for the utterly obvious reason that the chickens would run from the huge, regenerative mosquitoes. Or at least Kavanaugh. Rodney just didn't expect Kavanaugh to run straight into Bates' arms. That was a disturbing thought, one that actually reassured him that sleep would be safe enough, until the universe decided that it needed to release some cosmic disaster that required some hare-brained scheme accomplished only by his incredibly taxed brain and the Major's stupid do-or-die complex. Not Major, Colonel, now.

_Why do you not rest?_ The voice was soft, androgynous, the wind.

'I can't.'

_All is quiet. _Perhaps he was developing schizophrenia. It'd be interesting to study the different method of thinking that would emerge from the condition; Heightmeyer already had so much on her plate, would the fracture be subtle or violent?

'The Wraith are gone for now.'

_Pain, no injury. _ There was the crux. He would always be in pain. Part of the process of Rodney McKay's genius would be the constant fixation on an impossible goal, an attraction that would develop into unrequited love. It was a practice that he had down to an art form. Unrequited love was amazing in the motivation that it provided to the soul and mind, it drove him to express in the only way that he knew he was capable to do. The Antarctica base had been frustrating near the end, Samantha Carter was starting to fade and with Atlantis just out of his grasp Rodney needed to find another focus. His answer came in a glowing halo of blue, and a shock of hair that should need invisible cement to defy gravity so blatantly.

'Yes.'

_Let me understand._ Rodney took a moment to realize the implications of the answer. He sat up with a look of wonder.

'Who are you?' The dimmed lights of the room that pulsed to the intonations were real, not just in his mind.

_I am Here._

'Atlantis?' A developed AI that only showed up now was very suspicious. There had to be another source, a reason, surely. The Wraith? A last attempt to open the doorway to Earth? There was no sense to flee or of foreboding, what if the city was truly trying to communicate?

_I am Here._ The halls were empty; no one to observe to pulsing glow that lit the way for a glazed astrophysicist. Donuts, he missed a good Timmy Hos box. _Come rest. Why do you not rest? _Myths of sirens leading sailors to death upon the rocks, the myths told nothing of the haunting choruses of conch shells. Were the many mistakes made in the name of survival come to judge? Did the sins animate to judge in the halls of lore? Rodney chastised himself under his breath.

'Focus, McKay. You've been through one more life-threatening crisis, the Universe still has many a pipe for a wrench.' Apparently, there was a good chance that schizophrenia would cause his applesauce-science side to emerge, wouldn't that be a feather in the camel-back, Kavanaugh would take over in leading the Marines with Bates as his consort. Lucidity was overrated.

_I am Here._ The transporter took him to the chair. _Come rest._ Rodney rested in the chair of the Ancients. Hoping for the rest that his hallucinations tempted with.

Screaming wind, ghosts, alarms, the Wraith were back? It took a while for Rodney to realize that it was himself.

John Sheppard woke. Cold sweat and hoarse throat. Took a deep breath to stop the echoes of his screaming from ringing in his ears. It wasn't his screaming. Barely thinking of decency, threw on pants and took off at a dead run towards the tortured vocal cords, grabbed the P90 propped next to the door.

"Medical Team to the Chair Room!" The urgency in Sheppard's voice was underlined with the chilling stutter of terrified screams. Carson could hear the blood and swollen vessels.

_Understand._

He didn't blame Atlantis. Her survival meant his survival, and that of everyone else. Rodney didn't blame Atlantis for using him; the side effects were a boon. He realized this after waking from the mind-bending agony.

He wasn't a drooling idiot. In fact, he was the farthest thing from it, better than before if that could be possible. John had reached him first, Carson second. The rest of the city's personnel had trouble opening their doors. Rodney learned after that this was Atlantis' intention. It's intention was to lure the strongest ATA gene carriers, it's best medium was a sleep-deprived genius suffering from withdrawal symptoms.

John had said that. It made sense. Who else would be more likely to have a higher-level consciousness? John had tried to hold him down, thought he was having a seizure. If Rodney had bit his tongue, they would dearly miss his dulcet dove coos. Carson rushed in.

The moment Carson made contact the chair room became blinding. That was what Rodney remembered. Later on he listened to accounts of other personnel, the blinding light had been confined to his visual cortex.

The three of them were linked. Even now, Rodney could tell that Carson was in dire need of a couple more hours of sleep, and that John was two inches from screaming. Forever. From the archives he accessed. Beyond death, ascension and mental incapacitation.

He was unequivocally married. Rodney was the wife. Zelenka couldn't stop laughing, even after he burned himself with a soldering iron. There wasn't any doubt in Rodney's mind who convinced the Athosians to present him with a woven apron as a get well present, while Carson's second-in-command locked them into quarantine proving to be a voodoo protégée with the hourly blood samples, the apron even said 'Humor the Genius.'

John and Carson followed their strange urges to stay and protect the future bearer of their children. Really. Rodney was tired of pitching fits when Mini-Beckett-Vamp announced that he had an anomaly to his reproduction system, John turned puce when he 'saw' the diagrams provided by the Atlantean database downloaded into his brain. So Rodney merely let his hubbies take over the role of panicking, after consulting with the database that he was in no danger. There was no danger and could be safer against impregnation than condoms, spermacide, pills and a diaphragm put together; safer because Atlantis had to enhance the conception and incubation environment since Rodney's condition was subtle enough to be a mere 'anomaly'. Unfortunately, the city had a prerogative set by the Ancients who valued their young dearly; pregnancy would ensue after full consummation. They trailed after him from meeting to lab, Rodney refused to be caught in a bedroom, and he slept in the infirmary with Carson and John hovering.

The city refused to accept any bribes. Carson was delighted at the chance of fatherhood. John was thankfully more practical, listing out the reasons why a baby wouldn't be good in Atlantis. Top two reasons: (1) Wraith. (2) Not gay. Then that damn Scottish vigor became contagious. Rodney was Scottish, but the stereotypical traits had skipped his family to only emerge at reunions where drunken brawling was drowning in martinis while snidely sniping at financial pursuits. He pointed out that John was going to be under enough pressure by the military, by being in a telepathic polygamous homosexual relationship instigated by alien means, and a baby to prove that he'd willingly participated would be suicidal career-wise; John shrugged. Living in a closed community meant little or no sex, lotion was being rationed. Elizabeth Weir was an intelligent woman but what came out of her mouth next proved differently.

"I've read a few of SG-1's mission reports. There's a protocol. Members of SG teams would sometimes get married to continue friendly relations with the natives, whether they knew it or not. In fact, General O'Neill and Dr. Jackson are married, to several beings and each other simultaneously." John nodded and added his two bits.

"I hear there's something about a plant in the mix." Rodney sputtered.

"Colonel, I'll admit that though your hair seems to have _eaten_ part of your brain to become sentient, you can see the completely inevitable disastrous future awaiting us." Zelenka _giggled_.

"Playing hard to get, McKay?" Carson had the nerve to pat his hand as if comforting an already expecting mother.

"Don't worry, Rodney." At that point, Rodney rolled up the portfolio with his medical history inside and proceeded to try braining the murmuring Scottish brogue out, preferably into a physical form to emerge from Carson's backend. Hopefully, the brogue would be accompanied by the foolish notion of any type of congress in the sexual nature.

"Don't worry!?! I realize that it is my obligation, to the continual existence of the universe, for me to reproduce. However, I think I have an absolute right to object to this... this... _thing_!" John had somehow sneaked up behind him and trapped his arms. Rodney whipped his head around in a manner not entirely unlike a cornered animal and snarled, "Must I remind you that I bruise very easily?" The Colonel sat down. Pulling Rodney with him onto his lap.

"Do you?" was breathed into his ear. Damn. Carson was carrying sedatives. The little prick was accompanied by a sigh of relief. "I was wondering when he'd snap." A few more murmurs and Rodney was unconscious. So he didn't notice John shifting to hold him more comfortably in his arms and nuzzle the base of his neck briefly. Or Carson move his chair closer to pet the scientist's hair through the rest of the meeting.

The key to McKay genius was unfulfilled frustration. The key to him surpassing even his current pressured miracle-man status was being married.

Sheppard waited for the door to close and locks to engage before sliding down to sit on the floor. The room he had to sleep in was as Spartan and sterile as when he first got it. This was going to be the last time he saw it.

_Protect._

Goa'uld on a stick. Or some other deity. He was fucking married.

_Yes._

John had always dreamed, badly, about settling down with some pretty girl that understood enough football to take his 2.1 kids to practices and karate classes. Couple nights of that ended in cold sweat, patting his abdomen to check that he hadn't developed a beer gut yet. Instead of debating on the hair color of future wife, he had later hoped for someone that would understand the inevitable traumatic residue of Atlantis, a girl from Athos or a fellow sufferer of the enlightening Stargate program. That was in the event that John survived the expedition. And all the Wraith keeled over one day. Somewhere in the middle, during Antarctica, he wondered about dying as a frozen hermit. Splendid with blue ball icicles.

Now. Carson, fuck. Rodney, pregnant, damn apocalyptic. Atlantis was plain weird, in fact, John should have seen it coming. Rodney, hormonal, shit.

Sheppard held his head in his hands. Rodney was just as scared out of his mind. Carson, surprising as hell, was calm. Meditation calm. They were linked. Telepathically, each carrying access to one-third of the entire Atlantis database. Wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Atlantis had told them.

_Survival, for both Here and you._

Linguists were making petitions to claim their brains while privately locking themselves in closets. Crying or something else, John didn't know.

So far Rodney and John had refused to attempt communicating; the constant knowledge of location, and physical and emotional status was disconcerting without freaky mind melding. Carson was _happy_.

"Never had tha 'eart to tell mum tha' I liked men, at least it was wit' me best friends."

There was no way that John could possibly be anything but monogamous. Or was that bigamous...binogamous...duonogamous... duogamous... whatever. One was his doctor, the other the self-proclaimed most important scientist on the expedition, both close friends. No way was it fair to them, or any girl that he'd be leading on. Vows were sacred, Atlantean vows were even more, divorce was not an option. Besides, neither of them wanted to guess what the others would experience if one of them had sex, John shuddered.

_Partners should consummate with partners._

'I know!' John mentally shouted at the city. He wasn't gay. There just wasn't any option to explore that part of himself, before. To be celibate or enjoy an intro to threesome homosexual intercourse. Decisions, decisions. Oh yeah, don't forget the almost voyeuristic collection of Ancient structures, trying to be oh so very helpful by indicating possible files that advertised marriage assistance devices.

Or how about the child that would have tri-parent genes, an Ancient child, inside Rodney. Lord. The gleam in the eyes of the biologists was terrifying. His seven-hour jumper joy ride did nothing to help him towards achieving the Zen that Carson had reached. A kid. His kid.

To think on it now, Sheppard couldn't think of the features or details that his fantasy wife would send on to his kids, all faded and Bedford. There were actual glimpses of a boy or girl with Rodney's whetted tongue, his ears, Carson's nose and chin, incredibly smart. Hooboy. Genetic brains out the wazoo in the magical, ATA gene whore (as Rodney called it) of a city needed to be majorly childproofed.

And here came the nursery schematics.

_The child would be welcomed and treasured._

The point that frightened John most wasn't fatherhood, the telepathic thing, that he had husbands rather than a wife with possible ex-wife(ves), or that Carson was insisting on sharing living space, or even that he had the urge to stick around McKay. No. The point was that John frightened himself by privately wanting things to work out, it was fucking scary that it gave him hope. Whatever he was going to later call _it_ in his head, John wanted it. He was suicidal and completely sadistic to, but he did. Sex or becoming ambidextrous with huge forearms, John had this to sort out when he came home from the 9 to 5 job of shooting at life-sucking aliens, domesticity in Earth's societal norm would be boring and damn creepy.

Once he got past the paralyzing fear of stuff that any homegrown military boy would in this situation, and didn't go completely insane, it was rather fitting.

Too bad logic still wasn't going to stop the panic from bubbling up.

"Colonel, I'm really a simple man. Just to enjoy w'at life wit' people I love. Wit' ya and Rodney, it makes me content. Albeit the strangeness of it all." John raised an eyebrow.

"No shit, Carson. But aren't you just a _little_ freaked out?" Carson sighed and ran a hand down his face.

"It's Atlantis, John."

"What about Cadman?" Carson arched an eyebrow.

"Potential godmother. But she's been with that Canadian fellow for a while." Godmother over John's cold body.

The key to McKay genius was unfulfilled frustration. The key to him surpassing even this was being married.

Rodney didn't expect himself to produce at the same efficiency, he didn't expect to crack the power crisis, or improve upon the satellite defense system, or be able to move the city to the other side of the planet. Then again, he had one-third of all Atlantean knowledge hooked up to his brain, he had to access the archives to read before it was stored. The city was a matchmaker, the other two-thirds of the Atlantean records belonged to Carson and John and could only be directly accessed if Rodney made skin contact.

_It was meant._

'Yeah, I know. After all I've done for you.' So far the AI had grown stronger with the solar cells, it was teaching him how ZPMs were made albeit in baby talk.

_Consummate_. Rodney snorted and proceeded to ignore the city's attempt to plug porn into his head, he got enough of that from his husbands' dreams. Judging from his permanent shadows, whoever had the ATA gene naturally had the tendency to be kinky horny bastards, no matter how vanilla they might pretend to be.

Zelenka was not cooperating and kept ratting his location out. Rodney managed to develop a mental shield and convince the city to not reveal his location except in dire emergency, he could still hear the grumbling and would get the cold-shoulder spark whenever he touched circuitry. When finally out of range from the lusting thoughts, John had flipped a coin and slammed Carson into their mattress, Rodney could concentrate.

There was no way that he could work in the living quarters that the three of them shared, he had trouble keeping wandering hands off him under the dubious guard of night-shift nurses. Carson probably bribed them. And the lab was where John dropped by. And stayed.

"Damnit, John!" The Colonel shamelessly caged him against a console and carried out the attack he'd been contemplating for the past hour. John bit the pale, tempting, sweat-beaded bit of skin just below Rodney's earlobe and proceeded to suck hungrily. Rodney rubbed the sore spot on his head where a vicious hanging ledge whacked him, when John had grabbed his ass. The same hands that usually confidently held a P90 kneaded his butt.

"Can't help it. Responsive, sweet." John nudged Rodney's legs apart and grinded strongly against that nice vee that was made for him, one hand reached up to pluck at the nipples always teasing him from across the conference table. "So good, baby, been wanting you." Rodney's breath hitched and his hips twitched to the rhythmic pulling at his neck, no one else but Stackhouse had come with him to an abandoned lab, Stackhouse was nowhere to be seen. Traitor.

"You're not acting normal, John." Rodney inwardly cursed as the last came out breathy. Sheppard surged against him with a force that was going to make... him... oh crap... fuck... "John!" Muffled, thankfully, by John's exploring tongue.

He'd just had sex on a lab bench.

John happily stroked and patted Rodney's bum. After fantasizing night after night with Carson. Rodney puddled, sated, against him. He pulled a pliant universe repairman into the transporter with him to their quarters. Carson had already made excuses and was hurrying to the nearest transporter.

"Gonna make it so good for you, darling." Rodney protested weakly.

"I don't want to be pregnant." John tenderly kissed his crooked lips.

"Rodney, you've found a way to sustain a wormhole to Earth every week for hours, a new satellite defense system that'll vaporize _anything_ floating towards us, _and_ Carson's got a neutralizing agent that targets the Wraith. The baby'd be fine." A mulish glare.

"I hate kids."

"Yeah, right. No matter how you try to grump differently, kids love you and you love them back."

"The lab can't survive with me on paternity leave." John lifted an eyebrow. "Zelenka'd have a heart attack."

"Of pure unadulterated joy." Carson nearly kicked the door to respond quicker, he ushered Rodney in. The astrophysicist sputtered 'buts' until his back hit the bed.

"You actually organized an attack." Rodney was snugly sandwiched between his husbands. "Kinky bastards." The lights were romantically dimmed, except for the gigantic alien city watching smugly over their post-coital bliss. Then it was really creepy. But Rodney was distracted by Carson idly trailing his finger along his sore pucker. And John's huffing snores, Rodney sleepily kissed John's chest before letting sleep claim him.

Atlantis looked on with the nosy mother's smugness of marrying off her offspring well. The promise of spoiled grandchildren in the future.


End file.
